


Survival Of The Fittest

by castasticallydean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:04:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castasticallydean/pseuds/castasticallydean
Summary: John Watson has lived in a prison camp since he was twelve years old. Not that he'd done anything wrong, mind you. The U.K. was swept through with disease, leaving thousands of children parentless and not enough orphanages to take care of them. Thus, the camps were created. He'd spent five years of his life just trying to survive the grueling work and cruel punishment that came with being a prisoner. One day, everything changes, and his life is forever altered by the events that follow. Namely, meeting a boy named Sherlock Holmes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I kind of just threw together. I'm not particularly happy with it so far, and any critiques would be greatly appreciated. Enjoy! (Also, I know my formatting is messed up, but I'm too lazy to fix it right now.)

It was raining again, much to John’s displeasure. It hammered down onto the already churned up earth, pooling in the bottoms of the deep pits had been dug across the field.   

He leaned on his shovel, surveying the rows and rows of other inmates digging endlessly around him. The rain was freezing, and he shivered as it plastered his hair to his face and soaked through his clothes. He figured that he had at least a few minutes before a guard came close enough to see him slacking. They had been working since before dawn, and he wasn’t really in the mood to drop dead from exhaustion.    

A streak of lightning flashed across the sky, and the low rumble of thunder followed. He smiled bitterly. Even if that bolt had struck down right in their midst, even if it turned someone from a living being into a charred husk, the guards wouldn’t give them a rest from the backbreaking work. Whatever they were doing this for, it certainly must have been important. Normally they at least took the time to give them a midday meal.    

John couldn’t remember another time when the guards had been this frantic and hurried about getting the inmates to do something. Now, the field was nearly filled with the pits, and fear pooled in his stomach when he contemplated their purpose.    

A guard began to round the corner of the next row down, and he rapidly yanked his shovel out of the ground and scrambled back into the hole. He didn’t want to be caught slacking.    

Just as the vivid, painful memory of his last punishment entered his mind, his leg twinging just thinking about it, a shriek of pain rang out somewhere above him. He flinched. No matter how many times an inmate was shocked, the animalistic wails that followed never got any easier to hear.    

He heaved out a shovelful of the sodden dirt. It was beginning to become mud, and his shoes were coated in the mire. Not that they were much of shoes to begin with. He’d been wearing the same pair for seasons (Or had it been years? It was impossible to tell) and they had become worn to the point where there wasn’t really any purpose to wearing them anymore other than habit.    

After about a half-hour, his hole was deep enough. He heaved himself out, and as he regained his footing, he ran straight into a guard.     The guard scowled, shoving him away. “You’re wanted in the lab.”    

His heart raced. Going to the lab was never a good thing. More and more inmates had been sent there in the past few weeks, since they’d begun to dig the holes, and none of them ever seemed to come back.    

The guard turned and began to walk in the direction of the main buildings, twirling his shock baton at his side. He trailed behind him, quiet and stoical.    

He’d learned in his time at the camp that protesting or being stubborn only lead to pain. He had unsightly scars all over his body to prove it. The guards weren’t often hulking or very tall. In fact, most of them weren’t very intimidating at all, but with the technology the government gave them, there was no point in trying to stand up to them.    

Apparently he was walking too slow for the guard’s liking, because he marched back, his delicate features twisted into a snarl. “Hurry up, prisoner! The director doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and I don’t like getting soaked!” Grasping John’s arm, he shoved him ahead of himself, prodding his back with the baton threateningly.    

They marched in a tensed silence the rest of the way to the lab, John praying that he didn’t trip and goad his captor into shocking him.    

When they reached the door, the guard unlocked it and shoved him inside. “Have fun,” he grinned, his eyes sparkling with something that was probably malice. Then he slammed the door abruptly in John’s face.    

He leapt backwards in surprise, slamming into a cart of medical tools and sending them clattering to the floor.    

Someone chuckled. He whipped around, eyes wide.    

A man sat at a desk near the back of the room, his hands neatly clasped together. “John.” His voice had an Irish brogue, something that should have seemed familiar, friendly, but instead struck a nerve somewhere deep in John. “Sit down.” He gestured to the chair in front of him.    

He hesitantly came forward and lowered himself into the chair, putting his forearms onto the rests to be prepared to make a run for it if he needed to.    

The man eyed him, the side of his mouth quirking in an expression that just made John want to run more. “Relax. There’s no reason to run. You’re simply here for an…” He paused. “Interview.”    

John narrowed his eyes. “An interview about what?” His voice was sharper than he meant it to be.    

“Perhaps you’ll find out later.” The director pulled a stack of papers out of his desk, consulting them carefully, eyebrows furrowed. “John Watson. Seventeen.” He raised his eyes to John’s. “It says here that you have caused the guards trouble in the past.”    

He shifted in his chair. “I wouldn’t necessarily say ‘trouble,’ sir. I just don’t like seeing the others hurt.”    

“I see.” The director rustled around and produced another sheet of paper. Glancing down at it, he frowned. “What do you consider to be your greatest strength?”    

John didn’t answer immediately. This seemed to be almost like a job interview. He’d been a prisoner for years, tortured and neglected, and suddenly they wanted to give him a job? “... The fact I can patch up the others, I suppose,” he answered after a few moments.    

The director stood, straightening his long, gray coat and striding away. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder.    

So much for an interview, John thought as he followed. The clean, all too bright white of the walls made him feel filthy. He glanced down at his hands. He had never really been aware of it, he supposed that it was because he’d gotten so used to it, but they were caked with grime. The dirt was coating them so completely that it was hard to even tell the difference between dirt and skin.

They arrived at a large, steel door. On the other side was a room that almost looked like a gym. A track ran along the outside edge, and equipment filled the center of the room. Had all of this been here this whole time? John didn’t understand. What was it used for?  

The director raised his arm and began tapping at an expensive looking watch. He looked up at John, his hand hovering above it. “Run.”

He got the feeling that a lot rested on this, and that if he didn’t do well enough, things wouldn’t bode well for him. John took off, feet thudding against the rubbery floor.

Before he had made it even halfway around the track, one of his godforsaken shoes began to slip off. “Bloody hell,” he grunted, kicking both shoes off mid-run. The movement nearly caused him to fall, and he had to lengthen his step to make up for it.

He ran like his life depended on it. He hadn’t really even run for long distances before, but with the amount of grunt work he was forced to do on a daily basis, he at least knew that he was relatively strong.

He made two laps around the track, glancing at the director as he shot past him. He gestured for John to continue. John continued running, arms pumping at his sides. He wasn’t starting to get too tired yet, just a bit winded, so he increased his speed slightly.

He lapped the track multiple times, and as he rounded his fourth lap, the director bellowed, “Stop!”

He stopped, breathing hard. That certainly wasn’t the hardest thing he’d ever had to do, but it wasn’t like it hadn’t drained any of his strength. Reaching his arm to rub the back of his neck, he met the director’s gaze evenly. “What is all this for?” He repeated.

The director frowned at him, flipping to a different page on his clipboard. “You need to complete one more test,” he stated, completely ignoring John’s question.

John scowled. If they were going to kill him, he at least wanted to know why he had to go through all of this useless testing first. His best guess was that they were performing some sort of scientific study.

He followed the man back into the hallway, pausing when they were partway down. He had thought about running away before. These camps were hell on Earth, and though most people gave in and lost their spirit after a certain amount of time, John never had. He had been sent there when he was twelve years old, along with a truckful of others from her orphanage. His sister, Harry, had been left behind.

The government didn’t want to deal with all the children left parentless after disease began to sweep the country, and so every few years, they sent about half of the children in each orphanage to the camps.

The director turned back to John. “Come along now, Johnny.” He smiled maliciously at him.

John trudged after him, arriving in a room where a woman, who he assumed was some sort of government official, sat at a desk. She stood when they walked in, smoothing out her skirt and offering a tight lipped smile to the director.

The director handed the official the clipboard. “I’ll leave you, then.”

The official reached out for John’s hand. He stared at her like she was an alien. Why was she being polite to him? No one had treated him like a human being in years, why would they start now?

She continued to hold her hand out, and John tentatively reached out and shook it. “My name is Williams,” she said. “You’re lucky you've made it this far. Many are disqualified before now.”

“Disqualified?” He gulped.

“Yes.” She paused, eyeing him. “To be truthful, I’m surprised. You certainly don’t look like much.”

John was used to these sort of comments. Most of the time, he managed to slip under the radar, and that was how he liked it. He didn’t look like a threat, so he wasn’t treated like one.

Williams walked around the desk, pulling out the metal chair and sitting in it. She gestured to the one facing the desk. “Sit.”

John obeyed, albeit grudgingly.

She opened one of the desk drawers, pulling out yet another clipboard. However, this one was handed to him, along with a pen. “Fill this test out,” she said. “It will help to determine your ranking in the final lineup.”

He took the items without comment, but inside he was awash with questions. He tried to push them down as he focused on the paper in front of him. The first few questions seemed to be just simple maths.

He was one of the lucky ones who’d had an opportunity to attend school before being sent to the camp, and even after that he’d tried to get his hands on whatever books he could. It didn’t matter what they were about- it was just the novelty of learning new things that fascinated him. Consequently, he’d read quite a number of anatomy textbooks.

The next set of questions were grammar. He’d read enough books that it came easily to him. Then came a section on military tactics and machinery. John paused, baffled, his pen hovering over the paper. What did this have to do with anything?

He knew very little of the material, and guessed on the majority of the more difficult questions.

When he finished, he set the clipboard on the desk, sitting straight up in the chair. “There.”

Williams smiled coldly at him and took the clipboard, carefully looking it over and flipping through the pages.

John tapped his foot against the ground. It had become glaringly obvious to him that these tests determined whether he was to live or die. He wasn’t one to panic, but if he had been, he would have been losing his mind. The stress of the situation was beginning to affect even him.

After a few minutes, Williams put the clipboard back down and stood up. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’ve passed.”

Elation and apprehension rushed through John at the same time. What now?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short. But at least I'm updating lol. Also sorry the formatting is messed up, I posted it on my phone

John was marched unceremoniously out of the room by two armed guards, heading down yet another cold corridor. They kept shifting their eyes toward him when they thought that he wasn't looking, fingering the weapons at their sides nervously.

  
He'd just been given the opportunity to keep living. Did they really think he was going to shirk that by trying to escape?

  
Johns mouth quirked up at the thought of never having to return to that godforsaken camp, but his stomach dropped as soon as he contemplated what came next. He'd tried to ask Williams more questions, but she shrugged them off with ambiguous answers. As much as this seemed like a good thing, he couldn't help but be apprehensive.

  
They reached a thick metal door. One of the guards opened it and pushed him inside. The door was shut behind him, and he was plunged into total darkness, save for the small emergency light directly above his head.

Why wasn't there any light in here? From what Williams had said, he had some "special purpose" now. Throwing him in a pitch black room with who-knows-what lurking in the corners didn't exactly make him feel good about his future.

  
"Hello?" He called softly, taking a tentative step forward. He grunted as the pain in his leg hit him again. It was strange that it hadn't bothered him during the trials, or whatever they were, but he supposed that the adrenaline had just made him forget about it.

  
The silence remained, hanging heavily over the room. John rubbed at his leg absentmindedly, glancing around even though he knew it was futile.

  
"The pain in your leg is psychosomatic." The voice was sudden, after the few moments of silence. It was cool and collected, young and male, and emanated from somewhere in front of him.

  
"Bloody hell!" Shouted John, leaping back against the door. "Who's there?"

  
"Also, you need to bathe," the voice continued, as if pretending that John had never spoken at all. "Living in a prison camp is no excuse for smelling like you just rolled out of a pigsty."

  
"Excuse me?" John had no idea what was going on. How was this kid not terrified? He was locked in a dark room, and had been alone until John had been shoved in.

  
There was a loud, exaggerated sigh, and the clatter of someone getting to their feet. Footsteps sounded, and before long, someone was stepping into the weak light.

  
He was taller then John expected, all long gangly limbs and torso. A halo of dark curls surrounded his face, which was angular in an almost otherworldly way. He wore the same uniform as John, but unlike him, this boy was perfectly groomed. Piercing blue-gray eyes regarded him skeptically. "You? Really? I'd have thought they'd have partnered me with someone more..." he waved his hands vaguely, "Intimidating."

  
"I'm plenty intimidating," John growled, squaring his shoulders. He'd only known him for minutes, and already this boy was grinding on his nerves. "And what do you mean, partnered?"

  
He sighed again. "Oh, they haven't told you. Brilliant. We're partners. As in, they're going to send us into their war zones to do some absolutely ghastly things, and if we survive? Wonderful. If we don't? They'll send in another pair. Quite a few benefits to having thousands of children at their fingertips, you see."

  
John worked his jaw. "What the fuck." It wasn't a question.

  
The boy shrugged. "Yes, I know, quite unfortunate. They could use my brilliance in so many other ways."

  
John slumped to the floor, cool cement chilling his bones. He didn't particularly care that he probably looked stupid. He'd been through a lot of shit in his life. In all honestly, this really shouldn't have been that big of a deal. But still. This was a lot to take in.

  
The boy lowered himself to the floor next to John, lying down on his back and regarding the ceiling with a solemn stare. "They said we should be heading out soon. I don't know where we're going, but I do hope it's somewhere more interesting. This place is boring!" He drew out the syllables of the word, a frown settling over his features. He grew silent after that, resting his fingers under his chin in a steeple.

  
"You said something about my leg." John kneaded at the offending appendage. "It's psycho-something."

  
"Psychosomatic." The boy said haughtily, as if John was a bad taste in his mouth that he couldn't get out. "It's all in your head."

  
John scowled. "No, it's not. They hurt my leg during my last punishment." This boy certainly wasn't like the others he'd met at the camp. Most of them were beaten-down and complacent after years of harsh treatment and torture, but this boy still seemed to be full of life, and stuck-up to boot.

  
The boy didn't respond, rolling his eyes and turning away. Neither of them spoke for a few moments, as John considered their situation.

The boy ran his fingers through his curls and looked towards John. The dim light only illuminated half of his face, and the other side was shrouded in darkness. "Sherlock Holmes." He stated, abruptly.

  
"What?" John started forward, surprised out of his stupor.

  
"My name. It's Sherlock Holmes. If we're going to risk our lives together, we might as well know each other's names."

  
John drew in a breath, and locked gazes with Sherlock. "I'm John Watson."


End file.
